"Grief"

This the updated and improved story previously known as "Thirteen Ways." It has endured multiple revisions, peer reviews, and hours of tinkering. I hope it has improved. Enjoy!

Grief

By Ariel Custer

            Janice stirs brown sugar into her husband’s oatmeal. She reaches for the small, sealed, shaker of ground peanuts. She bought it for this purpose, remembering his fatal allergy, but cannot bring herself to mix it in. Phantom memories of their happiness in the earlier days halt her hand. She puts the container in her jacket pocket instead.

            Janice sits in the passenger seat as they drive silently to the hospital, he in his doctor’s coat and she in her nurse’s scrubs. She glances at his coffee. She pops the lid of the peanut container in her jacket pocket. It would be easy to drop a few pieces in at the stop sign up ahead. They stop. He looks right. He looks left. The timing couldn’t be more perfect. But she can’t. He is especially careful around cars now – always responsible and attentive. They go.

            They arrive at the hospital and walk through the parking lot toward the doors. They are silent, with three feet of space between them. Enough space for their baby girl. Janice’s blood pressure rises; she can feel her heart pound as she clenches her fists. She feels as though she could strangle him with her bare hands. She steals a glance at him and cannot help but notice the wrinkles around the corners of his eyes and mouth that were not there only four years ago. Those four agonizing years have aged him as much as fifteen years would age any other man. She relaxes her hands with concentrated effort.

            Janice has a bad morning. She checks on her assigned patients and has to correct three nurses-in-training. Some doctor almost kills a patient by prescribing a medication to which he’s allergic. She checks the doctor’s name, but it is not her husband. No, he is much too skilled to make that kind of mistake. Still, his skill wasn’t enough to save their precious Annabelle. She pockets some potassium chloride. She will put it in his leftover spaghetti when they eat lunch.

The ritual of the lunch break began the day they met, nearly 20 years ago. Even after the accident, they continued the ritual. But now they never talk, never make eye contact. They only eat their food in silence, barely acknowledging each other’s presence. Every moment his eyes are not on his food presents an opportunity for the sinister placement of the peanuts. But the accident wasn’t his fault, not really, and Janice can’t forget that fact, no matter how hard she tries. He walks away, unharmed.

            A car accident victim comes in with a broken collarbone and shattered humerus. Janice assists her husband all through emergency surgery. He asks for a scalpel. For a moment she holds it in her tightly closed fist, thinking about plunging it into his heart. She could make his heart bleed like her heart bleeds every day. But the way he said it, with an infinitely tired sigh, and the sheer exhaustion in his face makes her pause. The angry red haze is blinked away from her eyes and pushed from her mind. She hands the scalpel over.

            Another patient. She needs air, needs an escape. All this inner battling has left her breathless and shaky. She switches with another nurse. Before having a quick break, she checks on one of her husband’s patients. He happens to be in the room when she gets there. Janice wants to kick herself, but she decides to check the patient’s vitals anyway. The elderly woman with failing kidneys pats her on the arm – what a good doctor he is; she must love working with him. It is the first time she has seen his eyes all week. His eyes are duller than she remembers. He averts his gaze and quietly leaves the room.

            She must return the potassium chloride before anyone notices. She walks in the room just as the nurse taking inventory asks her if she’s seen it. Janice checks her pockets. Here it is; I thought I would need it. The younger nurse looks suspicious but says nothing. She is blonde with blue eyes; a beautiful girl with a beautiful smile. Like Annabelle. She reaches into her jacket pocket, feeling the peanut container. This time, she thinks. This time I will do it, no matter what he says or does. No matter what I remember.

            She stares at him from across the hallway. She sees the stooped shoulders, the dull gray eyes. She notices the wrinkles again, the white flecks in his hair. She winces at the evidence of the sorrow that has plagued him since that awful day when he backed over their toddler. She can still imagine the frantic crawl beneath the vehicle, his cries, the blood all over his shirt. All she sees is a grieving father, but all she can feel is a motherly ache.

It is five o’clock. Her shift is over. She waits in the lobby. He walks in, looks at her, and they walk out the doors. No words. She does not return his gaze. She cannot. She will follow through this time. No matter what she sees or remembers.

            The silence is heavy in the car as they drive home. Why is it so hard to kill her child’s killer? Why does she not dump the peanuts in his coffee? Why can’t she finally finish him? She mulls over the mystery in her mind, trying to make sense of her conflict of interests. On the one hand, Annabelle deserves justice. On the other, to take that justice would mean destroying the only link Janice still has with Annabelle – her father. The predicament weighs heavier and heavier on her mind and makes Janice feel nauseated.

            When they get home he reheats leftovers and even asks Janice if she wants some, but she isn’t hungry. She goes to her room and changes into her workout clothes. She spends some time in their basement gym. She runs two miles and benches 100 pounds. She can hear him upstairs, watching the news. For a minute she considers going up there, seething and raging, indulging every last animal reaction any mother would have toward the killer of her offspring. She could bash him in the head with a dumbbell. She could drop a bar on his neck. She could pour peanuts all over his head, just in case. His screams would be therapy. But that thought reminds her again of the wailing, mourning, weeping screams that burst from him when he realized Annabelle might be gone. She remembers the way he gripped the bloody body closer to his chest, willing breath into her, shouting for his little girl to come back. Janice remembers the way he yelled for her, telling her to call 911. But it was too late. She runs another mile.

            She finishes her workout and showers. He can hear her in the basement. He knows that she hates him. He hates himself. He wants to talk with her, but her icy stare locks his jaw every time he tries. He could go down there. He stands up from the couch, but his knees and resolve weaken, and he sinks back down. Again. If only he could bring himself to do it. For her sake and even Annabelle’s sake. He has it all set up in the spare bedroom. The rope, the rig, the chair – he would just have to jump. He sighs and closes his eyes, but cannot keep them closed for long. His daughter’s face greets him from the back of his eyelids. Not the bloody face, nor the peaceful face he remembers lying in the casket, but her smiling face; the one that greeted him every day when he came home from work. The images are accompanied by sounds – her ringing laughter, her squeals of delight when they played, her soft and steady breathing when she fell asleep watching sports with him. Those memories keep him going, keep him believing. They keep him from indulging the coward inside him that wants to use the rope. And every day he hopes that one day they give him the strength to reach out to his wife.

             They haven’t shared a room since the accident. When she left, she hoped he would follow her and tell her that they would get through it together. But he didn’t. She moved to the basement, and he stayed upstairs. Now, Janice sits on her bed, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. She could go up there. Ask that they talk. Scream and yell all of the things she thinks about him, and then cry in his shoulder all of the tears that claw her throat and fuel her agony. She stands up, but her knees and resolve weaken. Again. She stretches out on the bed, the tears leaking from her eyes, her head buried in her pillow. She remembers moments in their lives: their first date, his proposal, the wedding, Annabelle’s arrival and her four wonderful years of life with them. The years that were so unlike this living death. She doesn’t want it to be like this forever.

            Janice sits up suddenly, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. She doesn’t want it to be like this forever! She begins to pace across the room. What does she want, then? Divorce? Would that bring peace? She doesn’t really interact with her husband anyway. Their unusual arrangement allowed them privacy while they grieved their loss, but now it is just the way they live. She stops pacing when it occurs to her that neither she nor he separated their joint bank accounts. Is that proof of some subconscious desire to remain together? Even in the hellish throes of her grief and pain and utter misery, Janice never wanted to leave him. He is what connects her to Annabelle. No, divorce would only leave her deeper in the black muck of grief.

            Okay, so not divorce and not…whatever this is. Janice’s knees tremble when she realizes the only option left. She has to go up there. She has to talk with him. For Annabelle.

            He hears the stairs creak. He slowly rises from the couch and turns to face the figure rising up from the basement. When she finally steps from the last step to the ground floor, she raises her gaze from the carpet to his face.

            “Charles. I’m ready to talk.”

            

Thirteen Ways

Thirteen Ways

            Janice stirs brown sugar into her husband’s oatmeal. She reaches for the cinnamon sugar, remembering his fatal allergy, but cannot bring herself to sprinkle it on. She puts it in her pocket. One.

            Janice sits in the passenger seat as they drive silently to the hospital, he in his doctor’s clothes and she in her nurse’s uniform. She glances at his coffee. She fingers the cinnamon sugar in her jacket pocket. It would be easy to sprinkle it in at the next red light. They stop. They go. Two.

            They arrive at the hospital and walk through the parking lot toward the doors. They are silent, with three feet of space between. Enough space for a little girl. Janice’s blood pressure rises; she can feel her heart pound harder as she clenches her fists. Another man walks by them, headed to his car. She relaxes her hands, with concentrated effort. The hate simmers. The cold handgun she is packing underneath her blouse seems heavier and heavier. No, there is a witness. Three.

            Janice’s morning is uneventful and husbandless. She checks on her assigned patients. She makes small talk with the other nurses. She pockets some potassium chloride. At lunch she plans to put it in his leftover spaghetti. Lunch comes and goes. They do not say one word to one another. He walks away. Four.

            A car accident victim comes in with a broken collarbone and shattered pelvis. Janice assists him all through emergency surgery. He asks for a scalpel. For a moment she holds it in her tightly closed fist, planning to plunge it in his heart. Then she hands it over. Five.

            Another patient. She needs air, needs an escape. She switches with another nurse.  He is reassigned. Curse her bad luck! The elderly woman with failing kidneys pats her on the arm – what a good doctor he is; she must love working with him. It is the first time she has seen his eyes all week. If looks could kill. Six.

            She must return the potassium chloride before anyone notices. She walks in the room just as the nurse taking inventory asks her if she’s seen it. Janice checks her pockets. Here it is; I thought I would need it. The younger nurse looks suspicious but says nothing. She is blonde and blue-eyed, like Janice’s dead daughter. She reaches in her jacket pocket, feeling the cinnamon sugar container. I will do it. Seven.

            She stares at him from across the corridor. She cannot see the stooped shoulders, the dull gray eyes. She cannot see the wrinkles, the gray hair. She most certainly cannot see the sorrow that has plagued him since that awful day when he backed over her. She does not remember the frantic crawl beneath the vehicle, his cries, the blood all over his best shirt. All she sees is murder. He has never told her he is sorry. She cannot see that he says it every day. She can’t see the suicidal regret. If she could, she would count it. Eight.

            It is five o’clock. Her shift is over. She waits in the lobby. He walks in, looks at her, and they walk out the doors. No words. She does not return his gaze. She cannot. She will do it this time. She has the murder weapon in her pocket. The cinnamon. Nine.

            The silence is heavy, the tension thick. Why is it so hard to kill her child’s killer? Why does she not sprinkle it in his coffee? Why can’t she shoot him? She wants to. Ten.

            He reheats leftovers. Janice isn’t hungry. She goes to her room and changes into her running clothes. She goes to their gym in the basement and runs two miles. She benches 150 pounds. She can hear him upstairs, watching the news. It would be so easy to make it look like an accident. She could bash him in the head with a dumbbell. She could drop a bar on his neck. Then she would pour cinnamon all over his head, just in case. She runs another mile. Eleven.

            Janice finishes her workout and showers. He can hear her downstairs. He knows that she hates him. He hates himself. He wants to talk, but her icy stare locks his jaw every time. He could go down there. He stands up from the couch, but his knees and resolve weaken, and he sinks back down. Again. If only he could bring himself to do it. For her sake. He has it all planned. The rope, the rig, the chair – he would just have to jump. He sighs. Twelve.

             They haven’t shared a room since the accident. She moved downstairs, and he didn’t chase her. Janice knows that at first it was a cry for loyalty, but when he let her go, she figured he wanted it this way. She could go up there. Ask that they talk. Tell him that she hates him. Wait for him to apologize. Then she could finally have what she wants even more than she wants revenge – him. She falls asleep in her lonely bed. Tomorrow is another day. Thirteen.

Marriage Poem!

Ok, I am very excited about this poem. The form is a sestina. The poem has six stanzas: the first five stanzas have six lines and the last stanza has three lines. There are six seed words - one of these words (in my case, a form of the word or play on the word) ends each of the six lines; in the final stanza there are two seed words in each line. The seed words may seem to be randomly distributed, but there is a method to how they are arranged in each stanza. However, it is difficult to explain without being able to show you, and attempting to do so in this format would require more time than I have. My six seed words are perfect, time, sun, remember, if, and love. They take different forms like "son," "perfection," "loves," and "imperfections." In one way this poetry form can be quite difficult. But in another way, once you have a good seed word combination, the poem kinda writes itself. I had a great time writing and revising this poem and I have a product now that I thoroughly enjoy. I will probably keep tinkering, but for now this is the final draft. I hope you enjoy this poem entitled "Simple Instructions for a Perfect Marriage."

There is nothing to having a perfect

marriage. Live your life one day at a time.

Wash the dishes and the clothes. Greet the sun

with a smile. Do what you can. Remember

how you felt on your beautiful wedding day. And if

you can make the time – for you must – to make love

be sure to make the love

that lasts. No one expects perfection.

Be the best other half you can be. If

you run out of time,

you can never get it back. So remember

to say a kind word or none at all. The sun

rises each morning and the sun

sets every night. Tick, tock, tick, tock. Be loving.

Put the other first. Above all, remember

to pray together. No one can be perfect,

but maybe with His help you can get close. Time

flees like a bandit. Do not let it be stolen. If

you do these things, and if

you are these things, the Son

will help you through each day. Time

may fly, but enjoy it! Laugh at his silly joke! Love

each other’s quirks; his little imperfections

that only you know about. Remember

that your sweet husband remembers

that he loves you, even if

you are somewhat less than perfect.

Give him what he needs. Shine like the sun

only for him. Tell him you need, appreciate and love

him. He works so hard for your little family. Time

flies and he knows it – that is why when he gives his time

to play and snuggle and talk, remember

that he keeps trying, even when it’s hard to show you that he loves

you. And then – oh, what joy! – when you whisper into his ear: “If

two are so very happy, imagine the arrival of our son!

For soon we will be three, our own little family. Nothing could be more perfect.”

Love is the hardest thing to be. If

only we had more time to become more perfect

lovers. Reader! Remember what I said about the sun.

~Ariel Custer

Leap of Faith

This story is taken from a paper about my honeymoon...It is the most dramatic scene you've ever not quite witnessed on a water slide so...brace yourself for...THE LEAP OF FAITH!

The water slide that I remember most is called Leap of Faith. It is a glass tube that goes through a small tank. Oh, did I mention that the tank has sharks in it!? Anyway, it goes through that tank and shoots you out the other side into a shark-free landing place. I was so excited to do that slide – I was hopping from foot to foot all the way up the stairs as we waited in line. I had no idea the terror that awaited me. Finally, we were at the front of the line and I got up to the slide. Robbie had just gone. I sat in the launch pad and looked down, down, down, the tube. It was easily a 90° drop. My blood pressure spiked. For two awful seconds, I just sat there staring down the tube, suddenly regretting my decision to go down this slide. I looked behind me. There were little kids in the line. I knew I had to go or risk intense embarrassment. The Atlantis resort is big, but not big enough to hide from everyone who would see me walk down the stairs instead of riding the slide. I took a deep breath and pushed myself toward my doom.

I gained speed at an unholy rate – I am certain I was going faster than the average city speed limit. Water sprayed me in the face, and for a terrifying moment, I thought I felt my body actually come off of the slide. Then I hit the flat bottom part of the slide and in an instant every single sensation in my body was waterlogged. I tried to open my eyes to see the sharks. Big mistake! The water shot into my eyes and felt like a thousand needles stabbing me in the cornea. I was wearing contacts, and I’m still shocked as to how they stayed in my eyes. Then I shot out of the tube and into the landing pool. I was moving so fast I hit the bottom before I came up sputtering, my hair hanging in my face and my swimsuit completely awry. Robbie was waiting for me in the landing pool and helped me to the stairs. He asked me if I wanted to do it again. No way, I told him. Once is enough for me!

Creative Writing Work

Hello! I'm in a Creative Writing class this year. It's challenging - harder than I thought it would be. But I am enjoying it and I have written some pretty neat stuff. At least, I think it's neat. So. I'm going to be posting some of my assignments for you to read! This is partly inspired by my husband, whose blog is here: cuestrianconnection.wordpress.com. I recommend his Fiction link, where he is beginning a story called Knightly. I hope you enjoy it!

Alrighty! I will be posting my first Creative Writing Class post soon.

Make it a great day everyone!

Response to "I Don't Wait Anymore" by Grace for the Road, a blog that was recently shared on Facebook

Link to original blog: http://gracefortheroad.com/2012/02/03/idontwait/

I have been married for a month and two days now...my husband is 19 and I am 20.
Lives are so beautifully different because of God's grace - he can use a single woman in mighty ways and a married woman in different mighty ways. I think sometimes Christians can spiritualize marriage and make it some kind of lofty goal, like it's akin to the glory of God. Well it's not, even with all the great perks (and I'm no dummy, I'm not gonna deny that there are some fabulous perks to being married). But if you stop and think about it with eternity in mind, singleness is the permanent condition, not marriage. As a married woman this sometimes makes me sad, but it is also freeing for me because it reminds me that Jesus is the only permanent thing for me in the light of eternity. It also helps me to lighten up. Sometimes I can get so tense because I lose perspective. Some little thing hurts my feelings, I have a bad dream where he's not there to help or save me (yes, this actually has happened and he was actually in trouble for a few seconds until I came to my senses), or something else happens and I make it a bigger deal than it is. But if I remember that I don't rely on my husband for my happiness, suddenly my expectations settle to an attainable level. Suddenly I have better perspective on life.
And it is that perspective on life that is so very valuable, and a woman does NOT need a husband to gain that eternal perspective.

So when I read this blog and I heard about all these girls (and guys) who bought in to the fantasy of "God will bring you a spouse if you just honor Him," I just wanted to write down my thoughts, as much for my benefit as anyone else's. Because if I heard that message growing up, I certainly didn't buy it. God's really going to drop a husband in my lap? And I don't even need to date - God will just show me in His time? It seems to me that placing myself in situations and groups where I can meet people makes more sense. I don't know, I just have little patience for a girl who cries because she wants to get married but God hasn't left a man on her doorstep with a "From God" tag around his neck yet.

Now, I HAVE only been married a month. So...I'm sorry if I'm a little idealistic in my thinking and experiences. These thoughts are by NO means complete or probably even that coherent, but I need to wrap it up because I'm not really getting anywhere right now and I have class in the morning. So, I will sleep on this and report either tomorrow night or the next day. chau!

It's a baby

[SLIGHT RANT/WARNING] [BIRTH CONTROL ISSUE DISCUSSED]

Now, since this topic is a team discussion between my husband-to-be and me, I took this to him before I posted it and asked if he was comfortable with my rant. He gave me the go-ahead to post and advised me to diversify my research. It has been two days since I wrote this, and I've had some time to think, pray and evaluate my thoughts since then. Something that Robbie pointed out was that I went to Planned Parenthood, an organization that supports abortion and other methods of birth control that I feel are against the spirit of Christianity, which is my personal belief system. (The morning-after pill, which the site called "emergency birth control," makes it impossible for a fertilized egg - a baby - to attach to the uterus and then grow. I feel that this is against my principles of respect for life from the moment of conception.) Anyway, I decided to go back through and comment on my own blog. The underlined remarks are my thoughts a few days after my initial writing of this little article.

I'm getting married in a little less than 17 weeks, and I'm super excited about it. Robbie and I have talked about family planning and decided that it would easiest for us to finish school before we started our family because we want me to be able to stay home if at all possible. Anyway, I've been doing birth control research because I'm an ignoramus on the subject, so I spent around 30 minutes this morning on the Planned Parenthood website gaining intel. I would typically not think to look at this site, but it was one of the first sites to pop up on my Google search, so I figured I'd look to see what kind of information they had on the different methods of birth control. I began to be annoyed rather quickly because of how often this kind of warning popped up.

IMPORTANT! IF YOU FORGET TO DO WHATEVER YOU NEED TO DO FOR THIS METHOD, YOU MIGHT BE AT RISK OF PREGNANCY.

Um. Excuse me? RISK of pregnancy like it's some kind of disease?! And another thing that this particular site did was never, not once, use the word "baby" or "child." It was always a pregnancy or a fetus or a fertilized egg (which in my book is a human life, a baby, a child, a person).

All of this ticked me off because if I had it my way, I would skip the whole birth control thing altogether. I would love my husband, enjoy his love for me, work to build a strong and godly family dynamic, and let God do our family planning. I would trust Him to provide jobs and opportunities to do ministry. And then my husband and I would raise a family to do some serious damage to this notion that children are an inconvenience, a burden. When I see a culture that views children as a problem in the present rather than hope for the future, I start to be scared for that culture.

I feel that I understand my dear little friend Shane Buxman better in this moment, because all I want to do is bang my head against a wall and say, "Words, come to Ariel!" I have a feeling that I need to wrestle with this idea more to truly find my footing. I may be saying that I disagree with birth control altogether, but I'm not really sure about that. I think I'm more concerned with keeping my perspective in line. In my planning for the next few years of my future as a new wife with a new husband, I need to always remember the number of lives depending upon our decisions. I need to remember that children are a blessing from the Lord. I want to always remember that God's plans are permanent, while the plans of men are tentative. And I need to be always willing to forgo my will for His. Is birth control a symbol of that for me?

I'm not sure.


My main problem with the idea of family planning is that I need to trust God. My main problem with the Planned Parenthood website was NOT that they had faulty information or that they attacked a religious group or anything like that. I understand that their main audience is people who are choosing to be sexually active with multiple people outside of wedlock. With that in mind, my main problem with the website was their approach to birth control, like if it doesn't work then the woman is doomed to be a mother and her partner has to learn to be a father. 

This offended me in a deep part of my soul, because as I fall in love with Robbie and look forward to our life together, I am excited for the other lives that will come into being because of our love. If the birth control didn't work and I was one of the hundred women who get pregnant even though they're on the pill or whatever we decide to do, I would still be thrilled! And I know that Robbie would be, too. Would it be hard? Inconvenient? Sure, but when are children easy and convenient? Anyway, God makes life and He lets us in on it through the beautiful gift of sex. Where is a better picture of God Himself than when a life, a soul!, is made through making love, through unity? Think about it! With God, love and life always belong together!

I understand the practicality of birth control, and I am not trying to oversimplify or spiritualize something that ought not be simplified and spiritualized. I just encourage people to think. If my one year at college has taught me anything, it's to think. Thank you for reading all the way through my rant and trying to hear my heart. Here's a lollipop. :) Just kidding. God bless!